


Dig Their Own Graves

by KayleeArafinwiel



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 18:12:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18103769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KayleeArafinwiel/pseuds/KayleeArafinwiel
Summary: A lone gravedigger is hired on in an Arnorian village sometime between TA 2951 and TA 3018. His first meeting with his employer is unsettling.





	Dig Their Own Graves

Kirinki they call me, after a little songbird from the Star Isle. I think the name unsuited for one such as I - strongly unsuited. But what can I say? Naught, for I am bound by my oath to silence. Oaths. I want to cry, but dare not.

“Kirinki, Kirinki, sing for us!” the children clamour when they see me walking by with my shovel hoisted over my shoulder. “Tell us a story!”

Grey and silent, I pass by, my hood up to hide my face. So frail they are, these little ones, and never do I say a word, yet they imagine I will if they beg hard enough.

But I must be about my work. I have come to the boneyard, where the Bearers will soon arrive, and begin digging the hole.

“Kirinki!” they call, leaning over the fence as though intent on distracting me.

My scarred hands close tightly about the shovel as I dig. 

“Daro, children! Go back to your lessons!” a Man calls, and various apologies follow, mingled with a few ‘sirs’ and ‘my lords’ as the children scatter. I pale somewhat. I have yet to see the master of this village, my employer.

Slowly, I turn around, and view him for the first time - the master of Taduin. 

Elros!

But it is not he, of course not. Elros died long ago.

He has the look of Elwing, and my palm itches with memory. I turn away quickly.

The Chieftain of the Dunedain looks long and hard, his gaze boring into the back of my head. I cannot see, but I can feel. 

“Kirinki is rather a poor name for such a fine harp-player,” he says, and my hands jerk in surprise. ‘Twas not at all what I expected to hear. “But then you know that...Lord Maglor.” 

The pit of my stomach floods - I am drowning in memory, memories as deep as the Gulf of Lune. I will never escape that name. Never.

“An oath of silence. How convenient, my lord,” he continues blandly, leaning on the fence. “I had rather expected you would have enough of oaths.” My cheeks burn with shame.

“You never swore such an oath, did you?” he asks me.

“No.” My voice cracks from long disuse. “To no one but myself. How did you know?” 

“I thought not,” replies the Chieftain. “My brothers taught me well how to track truth and lies, among other things...and if you remain silent, you deny your gift,” he adds. “Besides, Adar Elrond spoke well of you...Kirinki.” He chuckles softly at that. “Remain with us, at least for a season, but longer if you wish. You will be welcome here.”

“Adar Elrond?” I cannot help but ask him, for I miss my remaining foster-son, though I never deserved to have him at all.

“I am Aragorn Arathornion, sixteenth Chieftain of the Dunedain, as perhaps you have guessed,” he replies. “But for eighteen years I dwelt in the house of Elrond, hearing your tales in the Hall of Fire. He raised me as his own son, following your example. He would like to have you back again, I know.” 

“I have silenced my voice and my harp,” I tell him regretfully. “I am no use to anyone. A thrall to that damnable Oath - it will never let me rest, never let me Sail.” 

“If thraldom it is, then it is of your own making,” Aragorn says. “It is in your head. Forgive yourself,” he urges, but I cannot, and shake my head. 

“It is too late.” I look past the grave I have dug, to the blue waters of the river. “There is no forgiveness for me.” The grave stands empty, and I feel half tempted to throw myself within. What use am I now? Aragorn seems to read my thoughts and gives me a sardonic smile.

“If persuasion does not suffice, perhaps I will write you a poem, my lord,” he says, and with that I leave, for where I know not - let the Mortals dig their own graves.


End file.
